


Beautifully Broken Things

by L_Morgan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John realizes that Sherlock's not as asexual (nor as available) as he had always believed. Through a series of near misses and privacy invasions, he is forced to come to terms with own feelings for his flatmate, as well as to redefine what he really means when he says, "it's all fine."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautifully Broken Things

Keys fumbling, John let himself into 221B. He took the stairs two at a time, praying Sherlock wasn’t in the loo.

The tube had been stalled for what seemed like an hour and thanks to the three cups of tea that he’d had in order to power through his last two clients, he had to piss like a race horse.

Thank Christ Sarah had let him go after his last appointment instead of asking him to stick around just in case.

‘No more running around after Sherlock at all hours on a work night,’ John vowed silently as he crashed into the bathroom, already tugging at his zip.

As he emptied his bladder, he finally allowed himself to take a breath. He really was too old for this. He was too old for a lot of things.

Tucking himself up, he caught a glimpse of red reflected in the bathroom mirror.

Curious - and a little apprehensive, truth be told - he turned to take a look. New objects in the bathroom usually meant Sherlock was up to his tricks again.

‘Speaking of Sherlock.....’ John frowned, realizing that he hadn’t seen his erstwhile roommate during his dash through the living room. Though as bad as he’d had to go, chances are he would have missed a parade of dancing elephants.

He walked cautiously over to the shower rod, where.... John’s eyebrow raised of in its own accord. “What are you doing with an enema bag?” he asked no one in particular. Taking a deep breath - for God only knew what he’d find in the bathtub - he pulled back the curtain. 

Nothing.

In fact, the tub was wet, as if someone - Sherlock, presumably - had just had a shower. 

‘Or an enema,’ his inner detective chimed in sarcastically.

“Sherlock?” John called. He took another suspicious look at the hanging red bag, only to turn around and damn near collide with his cat-like flatmate, who had materialized behind him, seemingly out of nowhere.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Obviously,” he retorted, reaching around until they were practically chest to chest.

“Watch it!” John pushed him back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Cleaning up.” Sherlock unhooked the bag, before tossing it into the tub with a resounding thud. “I wasn’t expecting you until after 5:00 or I would have taken care of this earlier.” Sherlock mouth twisted. “But here it’s not yet past 2:00 and you’re home.”

“Obviously,” John mocked. He crossed his arms across his chest.

“I was going to clean up in here before I left,” Sherlock assured. “Though I’m afraid that I lost track of the time.”

“So, you’re going out?

“Lunch.”

John grinned and then looked at his flatmate for the first time since he’d burst in. “I haven’t seen that suit before have I?” He asked, taking in the crisp lines and the deep grey that was almost, but not quite black. “It’s nice. Very nice indeed.”

“How would I know?” Sherlock asked rapidly; his cheeks colored. “There are many things that you don’t see even if they’re right in front of you.”

John bristled. “Well, Sherlock, what I am seeing now is that you’re wearing a very sharp suit and going for a late lunch - a lunch following a rectal flush?”

Sherlock pulled himself up to his full height and took a step back towards the door. “I was merely servicing the transport, John. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

John laughed. “You.” He leaned forward and poked Sherlock in the chest; his finger glancing off the silk shirt. “ Mr. I’m Married to the Work are going on a date. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m going to meet someone during the lunch hour.” 

“It’s a date.” John laughed. “You, Sherlock Holmes - are going on a lunch _date_ and by the looks of things, dessert!

Sherlock checked his reflection in the mirror. “You seem awfully invested in this, John.”

“Not at all,” John denied. “I’m surprised more than anything, to tell you the truth. So, is this new then?” He asked, trying to show his encouragement, as opposed to simply his disbelief.  

“No,” Sherlock answered.

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, with a touch of irritation. “We - we’ve been....” He hesitated. “We’ve been together - if you pardon the blatant sentimentality of the phrase - for many years.”

John opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Sherlock, the bastard, smirked. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want the answer.”

“Have - have they met Mycroft, then?” John stammered, not sure how or why it felt like the floor had just dropped out from beneath his feet.

“And don’t beat around the bush because you’re afraid of or uncomfortable with the obvious.” Sherlock sniffed. “You rightly deduced the nature of the outing from the object in the tub. The function of said object should lead you to deduce that this is a male person. Thus, the question would be 'he', not 'they.'”

John felt his cheeks heat, more at the rebuke than having Sherlock’s preferences confirmed. “Okay then,” he started again, trying not to clench his teeth. “Does _he_ know Mycroft?”

Sherlock looked down his nose, the disdain on his face as evident as the buttons on his jacket. “Does _anyone_ know Mycroft?”

John laughed despite himself, before changing gears. “Now you’re being safe about this right? And before you blow your top, I’m asking you as your doctor, not as your flatmate or even as your friend.”

“Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock sighed. “We’re exclusive.”

John blinked. “So it’s serious, then?” He found himself swaying forward. “I mean, will I need to be looking for a new flatmate soon?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock scoffed. "I must run, John,” he said, reaching to adjust his cufflinks. “I should be back by the time you’d normally have returned.” He hesitated, and then offered up a small smile. “I believe Molly has a few new specimens if you’d like to go to Bart’s after?”

“Wait a minute.” John closed his eyes; a thought formed that was so ludicrous that he was almost afraid to put words to it, not that that stopped him. “Are you saying that you arrange your assignments around my schedule?! That if I hadn’t come home early, you would have just been here, on the couch, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary would have happened,” Sherlock pointed out. “As I said, John, we’ve been seeing one another for a long time.”

“Since you’ve been back?” John forced himself to ask, though they had, almost by tacit agreement, rarely spoke of the time that Sherlock had pretended to be dead. There was something about Sherlock’s silence that gave him away. “You were together before then, weren’t you?” 

Sherlock nodded; the move was so slight that it was almost imperceptible. 

“You’re telling me that you’ve been in a relationship with someone for a _t least_ five years and you never once said?” John felt like a complete and utter tool. “Why haven’t I met him?”

“My - my - well, my whatever-you’d-like-to-call-him - has a strange schedule,” Sherlock stammered. “It is often not convenient for us to meet in the evenings. When we do meet, which is not as often as you might be imagining based on the preferred frequency of your own liaisons, we tend to do so during strange hours.”

John shook his head. “We’re not done here.” 

Knowing that now wasn’t the time, he took a deep breath, doing his best to push aside the feeling that he’d been lied to. Pretending that the last round of Q&A hadn’t happened, he tried again. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. It’s really none of my business - not when you meet or how often.” He forced a somewhat strangled laugh.

“And why would you plan your meetings with your friend around my schedule anyway?”

Sherlock looked down, brushing a piece of imaginary flint from his perfectly pressed jacket. “Yes, why indeed?” He glanced back up and then away. 

If John didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock was actually embarrassed.

“Well, I must be going,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. “Should I come back here or shall I just meet you at Barts, say, 6:00ish?” He turned toward the door, hesitating just inside the frame. “Molly says we’ll have to be out by 9:00, so perhaps a bite at Angelo’s afters?”

Knowing a peace offering when he saw it, John swallowed his disbelief and forced himself to smile. “Lunch and dinner in the same day and a date?” he teased. “Who are you? And what have you done with my flatmate?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and smirked and for the first time since John had entered the bathroom, everything seemed normal. 

“Don’t get too excited, John,” Sherlock warned, shattering the illusion. “The odds of my actually eating at lunch are decidedly slim.”

 

 

 

 

 

~*~

The next few days were a roller coaster for John. No matter how often he tried to convince himself that nothing had changed now that Sherlock had someone - or, rather, now that he knew that Sherlock had someone he just couldn’t get ever the fact that Sherlock - Sherlock, of all people - had managed to maintain a relationship for the entire time that they’d been flatmates.

He alternated between being glad that his flatmate was happy (though with Sherlock it was hard to tell), insatiably curious as to who could have caught and held Sherlock’s attention for so long, embarrassed that he hadn’t seen it before, and hurt that Sherlock hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him to begin with. 

And those were just the days.

At night, he worried. What if Sherlock one day decided that it was serious? Or what it became serious? What if Sherlock decided to move in with his mystery man? Or what if, God forbid, he asked John to leave so that his lover could take his place at 221B?

At night he also found himself wondering. Wondering about Sherlock. Wondering about himself. Wondering what might have been if Sherlock hadn’t been already taken when he’d first come crashing into John’s life. Wondering - now that he knew that Sherlock wasn’t the asexual being that John had always taken him for - what might happen if Sherlock and his mystery lover were ever to break up, assuming that John was still around long enough to find out. 

And in the cold morning light, he wondered how he might have reacted if all of those things that he’d fantasized about - safe in the knowledge that it would never, ever,  happen - actually had. 

 

 

 

 

 

 ~*~

“You lied to me,” John accused one morning over toast and tea.

Sherlock glanced up from John’s laptop. “What now?”

“When I asked if you had a girlfriend, you said it wasn’t really your area.”

“It’s not.”

“But when I asked if you had a boyfriend, you said 'no.'”

Sherlock pursed his lips, before closing the laptop slowly. “And as I recall, you said it was all fine.”

“It _is_ all fine,” John snapped. “I just wish you’d been honest with me. Why did you lie?” ‘And why did you keep lying?’ he wanted to ask, but didn’t. 

“I’ve never thought of him in those terms,” Sherlock said slowly. “Boyfriends, girlfriends. What ridiculous words, really, when you think about it. What do they really tell you about anything?”

“If I’d said ‘lover’? What would you have said then? Would your answer have still been 'no'?”

Sherlock tilted his head, but kept his silence.

“Well, you tell me, Sherlock.” John pushed himself up from the table. He reached for his jacket. “What word best describes this mystery man of yours?”

Sherlock blinked. “Family,” he said, his voice but a whisper. “I suppose if I think of him at all, it’s as family.”

John’s heart twisted deep in his chest. “That’s beautiful,” he said softly, reaching for his keys. “I’m happy for you, Sherlock....  I didn’t realize that you felt that way about....”

Sherlock looked up sharply; eyes clear. “What did I say? Where are you going?”

John frowned. “Just ‘round to the store,” he answered without missing a beat. “We’re almost out of milk. Do you need anything else?”

“No,” Sherlock answered. He flipped open the laptop. “Nothing for me.”

 

 

 

 

 

~*~

“So, where did you meet him?” John asked, reaching around Sherlock to scoop up the pile of dirty dishes that had been sitting on the table for the last three days.

“Who?”

“Your friend.” John sighed. “You know, the one who apparently doesn’t have a name?”

“Oh, him.” Sherlock turned his attention back to the microscope. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m your friend too, Sherlock.” John counted to three. “And I am curious.”

Straightening, Sherlock laid his hands on the edge of the table. “Well, if you must know, I met him through Mycroft.”

John fumbled the cup and saucer. “You’re joking.”

“No.” Sherlock’s mouth twisted, as if he were choosing his words with care. “They were in the same year at school. He came for the holidays when I was sixteen.”

John’s mouth fell open. “You’ve known him since you were 16?”

“Actually...” Sherlock turned to meet his eyes. “I’d met him before. But things changed that particular holiday.”

“Is that when you became lovers? And you only 16?” John was aware that his voice was rising, but all he could do was shake his head. “Did Mycroft suspect?”

“You know my brother, John,” Sherlock said. “He was aware of the situation almost as soon as I was.”

“So this bloke’s Mycroft’s age?” John asked, trying to picture it. “Making him what, at the time, 22?”

“Twenty-three, actually,” Sherlock corrected. “But don’t be so outraged, John, I’ve always been--”

“If you say mature....” he interrupted. “So help me I’ll punch you in the face for a liar.”

Sherlock smiled. “I was going to say an old soul.”

”And Mycroft was okay with that?” John asked, still trying to wrap his head around it. “With his old school chum buggering his little brother?”

“There were days that he was less comfortable with it than others,” Sherlock admitted. “But he eventually came around.”

“And your parents?”

Sherlock’s countenance shifted ever so slightly, telling John everything he needed to know. “They didn’t find out until later.”

“And? Not good?” John asked, trying to lighten the tone.

“A bit not good.” Sherlock frowned. “My father never forgave Mycroft.”

John hummed in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. “And your mum?”

“Mummy also blamed Mycroft. But in the end, she opted for my happiness.”

“And has he made you happy?” John asked, thinking back to all of the nights Mycroft had put him on alert for Sherlock’s so-called danger nights, the track marks, the drug busts, and the nicotine patches.

“Not always,” Sherlock admitted. “But he tries.”

John nodded. “Is that why Mycroft feels so responsible for you now? He feels guilty?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and for a moment, John wondered if he’d said something wrong. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said finally, before turning his attention back to the microscope. “It may very well be....” 

 

 

 

 

 

~*~

John flexed his hand as he let himself into Baker Street, making sure that the bandage was still secure. He’d been restocking the pharmacy and stupidly sliced his hand open with the box cutter instead of the box. Though he figured if you’re going to injure yourself on the job, a medical clinic was as good a place as any.

Luckily it was longer than it was deep and Sarah had managed to butterfly it together before wrapping it in sterile gauze and sending him on his way. 

As he stopped to wipe his feet at the top of the stairs, he noticed a full length umbrella leaning in the corner.

“Uh oh,” he murmured, cursing his free afternoon for the first time since he’d stepped out into the afternoon sun.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for the inevitable standoff that was occurring on the other side of the door. Plastering on a smile, he opened to the front door. And found nothing.

It was empty.

He glanced back at the umbrella. It wasn’t his and Sherlock would rather be caught dead with anything that even remotely could be associated with his brother. So Mycroft had left it.... Or....

John’s eyes flew open. “Sherlock?” he called, glancing into the kitchen, before making his way to the lav. 

Nothing. 

He glanced over to Sherlock’s bedroom door. It was closed. 

He glanced back over at the entry way, where Mycroft’s umbrella - (because, really, who else would carry an umbrella on a beautiful day like today?) - and frowned. 

John felt a twinge of unease.

“Sherlock?” he called again, crossing the living room until he was just outside Sherlock’s door. 

“Don’t open the door, John,” Sherlock called, his voice muffled through the thick wood.

John heard someone, Sherlock presumably, moving around hurriedly. The door opened partway, and Sherlock slipped out, shielding the doorway with his body. 

He’s wearing his dressing gown and not much else.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock closed the door behind him and motioned John back into the living room. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well...” John hesitated, beginning to feel a bit foolish.  “It’s just that I saw what I assumed to be Mycroft’s umbrella in the hall and I thought maybe something happened.”

“Oh.” Sherlock made a dismissive hand gesture. “He was here earlier,” he said, without quite meeting John’s eyes. “He must have left it here. Yes, he was called away unexpectedly.”

John frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Mycroft.” He glanced over at the closed bedroom door.  “Were you asleep?”

Sherlock looked at his feet. “Not exactly.”

“Good Lord!” John exclaimed; blood rushing into his cheeks as the realization set in. “You’re not alone are you? You have someone in there.”

Sherlock glanced back, meeting his eyes but briefly before tilting his head in silent acknowledgment.

“S’that why Mycroft took off so fast, isn’t it?” John guessed. “It must have been quite the shock if he’d leave so fast that he left his umbrella!”

“If it’s any consolation, we were just on our way out.”

John snorted. “No rush on my account,” he remarked, finally seeing what was standing before him: Sherlock, hair a mess, a faint red mark at the base of his neck. The dressing gown that, at this point in their acquaintance, John was essentially blind to, turned inside out.

“Actually, John.” Sherlock leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If you would be so kind as to go upstairs?”

“What?” John gasped. He thought of all of the times that Sherlock had crashed his dates. “You,” he sputtered. “You - _of all people_ \- are asking me to leave? You, asking me to respect your privacy after all of the interruptions? All of the texts?”

“My....” Sherlock’s eyes cut to the left. “My guest is quite shy. He’s rather important you see.”

Feeling slightly offended, for himself as much as Sherlock, John took a step forward, crossing his arms across his chest. “He’s in the closet you mean?” 

“Not in the way that you’re thinking, no.”

John considered this; okay, if Sherlock said so. “Is he married?”

“John!”

“Well, really, Sherlock,” John countered. “What do you want me to think?” 

Sherlock pulled himself up to his full height. “While I recognize that the institution of marriage, as well as heterosexual hegemony, are no more than social constructions, I do have some notion of what others consider right and wrong.”

John immediately thought of the human body parts that Sherlock routinely kept stored next to the left over Lo Mien and was skeptical. “Well,” he admitted, giving his friend the benefit of the doubt, “I guess it is hard to believe that Mycroft would approve of you having it off with a married bloke, even if he was a friend.”

Sherlock shuffled awkwardly. “Would you mind?” he asked, glancing toward the stairs.

John sighed. “Fine, but let me grab a cup of tea, first,” he muttered. “Do you want me to knock on my way up?” he asked, unable to keep the bitter undertone out of his voice. 

Sherlock shook his head. “Thank you, John.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “You really like this bloke, don’t you?” he asked; his own guts turned uneasily. 

Sherlock shrugged. 

John shook his head, feeling unaccountably sad. “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock. I won’t tell anyone.”  

Sherlock’s mouth turned up in what looked like a smirk, but not quite. If John didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock looked wistful.

“Thank you,” Sherlock repeated, making it the fifth time that he’d ever thanked John since they met. That it had happened twice in the last ten minutes made John’s head hurt in a way that didn’t warrant contemplating.

“I think I’ll skip the tea,” he muttered as he turned to the stairs. “See you later?” he asked, casting Sherlock a glance over his shoulder.

Sherlock smiled, pulling the dressing gown around him tightly. “Of course.”

Fifteen minutes later, John glanced out the window to see Sherlock crossing Baker Street carrying Mycroft’s umbrella in his right hand. His left hand, John couldn’t help but notice, was resting securely at the base of another bloke’s back. A bloke, who, tall and thin, much like Sherlock himself, was wearing not only Sherlock’s billowing coat but also - as if anticipating John’s prying eyes - his ridiculous deerstalker hat.

“Damn it,” John muttered, jerking away from the window and throwing himself down across the width of his too narrow bed. “Damn it to hell.”

 

 

 

 

 

 ~*~

John let himself into Baker Street, surprised to find the flat quiet. 

“Sherlock?” he called.

No answer.

A quick look around told him what he’d expected as his footsteps echoed in the too still flat. It was empty.

Wondering where Sherlock was, John realized how little time he’d ever spent here when Sherlock was away. Well, that is, when Sherlock wasn’t pretending to be dead. But even then, John had spent precious few hours in the flat when he wasn’t asleep, or, truth be told, blind drunk.

He reached for the tea pot, only to notice a note stuck in his favorite cup.

‘Out to dinner. Don’t wait up. - SH’

Freeing the missive from its rather incongruous, if not obvious, vessel, John turned the Post-It over to examine both sides. Suddenly angry, he crumpled it up and tossed it in the corner. It landed in a saucer overflowing with mold with a satisfying splat.

“A note?” He muttered, to no one at all. “You couldn’t have just texted?” 

‘No,’ his inner Sherlock supplied helpfully. ‘Because you might have asked questions.’

John leaned his head up against the cabinet and sighed. 

Truth be told, he was more worried than angry or, God forbid, he admitted, jealous. 

Essentially, he wasn’t sure that he believed Sherlock when he said that John didn’t have to worry about being displaced.

Because while John hadn’t had a clue this bloke existed prior to Sherlock’s “fall,” he was certainly making his presence felt now. In the last few weeks, alone, John had practically lost count of the times - nine, his subconscious provided helpfully - that he’s either caught Sherlock on his way out, couldn’t find his normally underfoot flatmate, or nearly walked in on them, here, at Baker Street. 

John hoped that Sherlock was just being less discrete now that John knew he had a lover, but John was afraid that said lover, perhaps even unbeknownst to Sherlock, was attempting to change the nature of the arrangement.

And if that happened? Where would that leave John?

Abandoning the idea of tea together, John grabbed the bottle of Scotch that Mycroft has sent over after one those night that they had ended up in the Thames. Sherlock of course had relegated it to the back of the cabinet - it had come from Mycroft after all - but John wasn’t above sneaking it out for an occasional nip, or two, if the situation warranted it.

After a few drinks, John pulled out his phone. Bored; he decided to text Sherlock. ‘After all, fair’s fair,’ he thought as he typed in the familiar number. At least he had a reason.

‘Have you seen my green scarf?’

John sat the phone down and waited; somehow not surprised that Sherlock wasn’t going to be as prompt in returning his texts as he was in returning Sherlock’s.

John sighed. If he were honest with himself, he had a little crush on Sherlock. He had for a while now. He liked it actually. And sometimes, when he was bored, or sometimes just when he had time to kill, he took his crush out and looked at it. Played with it. Let it play itself out. 

Because Sherlock was supposedly asexual, and therefore totally off the table, he’d never been bothered about actually fancying a man. Because it was never going to happen. Even if he - _John_ \- made a move, Sherlock would shoot him down, much like he’d done that very first night at Angelo’s during their one and only conversation that could have ever been defined as “personal.” 

Hell, John hadn’t even been asking - at least not like that - and Sherlock still managed to cut him off at the knees.

So everything after that was a little bit like having a crush on your teacher (or your Mum’s best friend) - sometimes heartbreakingly poignant, but at the same time, undeniably safe. In fact, John had wiled a number of evenings thinking about his flatmate’s pale skin and long legs and what it might feel like to be at the center of that unwavering attention and focus - like that. What it might feel like to not feel the need to correct someone when they automatically, yet erroneously, assumed they were a couple.

John jumped as the phone lit up where it lay next to his hand. ‘It’s in my room. - SH’

‘Twenty-five minutes,’ John noted with a touch of irritation.

‘Did you find my note? SH’

John fumbled the phone with whisky thickened fingers. 

‘Ta for that,’ he typed quickly, before he could change his mind. ‘Goodnight.’

Turning off the phone, John slid it between the cushions. Twenty five minutes. Sherlock had waited twenty five minutes. He thought of all of the times that he’d waited all of twenty five _seconds_ to return Sherlock’s messages, no matter how ridiculous or inane they’d been. No matter what he’d been doing. No matter who he’d been with. No wonder every woman he’d ever dated had dumped him. Not only had he been a bad boyfriend, he obviously _was_ an idiot.

Trying not to think about it, he pushed himself up and headed towards Sherlock’s empty room. He hadn’t really wanted the scarf - it had just been an excuse to bother Sherlock on his date - to return the favor so to speak. But now that he knew where it was, he may as well go and get it. God only knows Sherlock had been doing with it.

John took a deep breath as he entered into the oasis that was Sherlock’s room. He’d only been in there a few times - one of those times he’d stuck his head to find Irene Adler asleep on the right hand side of the bed; most of them, however, had been at the behest of the elder Holmes who had sent him in out of his ever present concern.

That, of course, was when Sherlock was “alive.”

When Sherlock had been “dead,” John had avoided the room like the plague; mainly, because the thought of going in, and seeing all of Sherlock’s belongings abandoned and gathering dust, had literally made him sick to his stomach.

Pushing those memories aside, the thing that always surprised him about Sherlock’s room was was how unbearably neat it was. And how simply decorated, with nothing but the periodic table adorning the papered walls.

Unlike every other nook and cranny in the flat that overflowed with beakers, petri dishes, and God only knows what kind of biohazard Sherlock had been cooking up (and generally forgetting about) Sherlock’s _room_ was a study in organization. He had little cubbies along the floor board, each filled neatly with cards and dividers; almost as uniform as the periodic table itself. 

Letting his eyes skate quickly across the damask of the duvet, John turned his attention to the task at hand; because if he didn’t locate his scarf, Sherlock would know that the text had been a ruse, if he didn’t already.

Given Sherlock’s tendency to put like with like - at least within his own room - John started with the wardrobe. 

He rummaged with a light hand, reminiscent of the times that Mycroft would have him search Sherlock’s room for drugs during his so-called “danger” nights. It had only taken one tongue lashing from Sherlock for having disturbed his “sock index” for John to perfect his method. 

At one point, John had been able to search the entire space in less than 5 minutes and when he’d leave, no one would be the wiser. Because, if Sherlock had noticed, he would have mentioned it. Loudly.

Just as he was ready to give up, a familiar shade of oatmeal caught his eye. 

Normally an unobtrusive color, the buttery brown stuck out like a sore thumb in Sherlock’s closet filled as it was with dramatic blacks, charcoal greys, and satiny gem tones. 

“For heaven’s sake,” John muttered. “What on earth’s name are you doing here?” Not quite believing his eyes, he reached for the familiar garment.

Shaking his head, he smiled as he picked up the sweater that his mother had given him for his 20th birthday. The same one that he’d worn up until the time that it had mysteriously “disappeared,” oh, about the time Sherlock, too, had “vanished.”

Though he’d never admit it, he actually felt more warmed than annoyed that Sherlock had not only nicked his sweater, but chances are, had taken it with him. Basking in the small reminder that he had been missed, even though it was becoming increasingly obvious that he was no longer the most important person in Sherlock’s life, John gripped the woolen garment, only to have something crinkle beneath the weight of his grip.

Carefully, he turned the bundle over; cradling it in the crook of his arm, he lifted back the sleeves with his free hand, to reveal a packet of cards tied with a purple ribbon. Squinting in the dim light of the wardrobe, John took a closer look: postcards. And not the fancy kind that you’d receive from exotic locales around the world, but simple - cheap, really - white postcards, the kind that you might get if you popped down to Boots.

Knowing full well that it wasn’t any of his business, nor that that would stop Sherlock has the shoe been on the other foot, John carefully untied the ribbon and took a closer look.

The first card was postmarked three days before Sherlock returned; it was addressed with a Japanese symbol that John recognized, but somehow couldn’t quite place, general delivery, to a post office somewhere in a county in Wales. The message was short - two words: _Thank God._

No signature.

Replacing the card at the top of the stack, John rapidly flipped through the others, at the moment more interested in where they’d been collected than what they’d had to say. Because he knew what these were: U.K., Scotland, France, Italy, Columbia, Peru, Uganda, Budapest, U.S., Mexico, Cuba, China, Iran, India, Sweden, Afghanistan....

‘God Lord, what had be been doing there?’ For a moment he closed his eyes and tried to picture it, but he couldn’t.

New Zealand, Australia, back to the States.....

All with a Royal Mail post mark.

All addressed in a masculine hand.

Some had been forwarded, but the majority had hit their mark.

‘He knew.’ John rocked back on his heels. ‘Sherlock’s boyfriend - because who else could these possibly be from - had known....’ 

Not sure what he was feeling, other than completely and utterly lied to again, because obviously boyfriends _were_ Sherlock’s area, he flipped them over; he started at the beginning.

_I assume that you’re fine._

_You’d better be fine._

_I miss you._

_I can still see the moonlight in your hair._

_Come home._

An image of Irene Adler filtered through John’s mind unbidden. Not, naked as she’d been the day he’d met her, but rather her, sitting on a dusty box in an equally damp warehouse reading off texts that had never been answered.

John flipped to the next card. 

_I need you._

“Jesus,” he muttered. He wondered just how many people had done this. Just how many had spent their hours sending Sherlock messages he’d never answered - or wrote blog entries that had only ever been the subject of derision and ridicule?

_I wish you’d come back._

_Soon._

_“_ Soon? What? _”_ John asked, checking the date. This had been sent only 4 weeks after Sherlock’s fall.

_Two more days._

John closed his eyes, afraid of what he’d see next.

_You’re still are - and always will be - the singularly most beautiful thing I have ever seen._

He sat down, hard. Taking a deep breath, he tried reconciling that this - _person_ \- had obviously not only known that Sherlock was alive, but had actually seen him. 

Whereas - _he_ \- Sherlock’s supposedly one friend.... Constitutionally incapable of finishing the thought, he flipped to the next card. Only to immediately wish that he hadn’t.

_I dream of you._

_I dream of us._

'Jesus. Who writes things like that - on post cards no less?'

Then, after a week of silence: _Happy Christmas._

Followed by: _Thank you._

And _, I miss you already._

John closed his eyes. He knew he should stop, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. It felt a little like watching a slow moving train wreck or a homeless person standing a little too close to the gap. 

‘Just how many times had they seen each other?’

_Stop smoking._

_Lonely._

_I heard someone playing the violin yesterday; another reason to miss you._

His hands were shaking, almost to the point where he couldn’t make out the words, despite the elegant script.

_Stop this._

_Please come home._

_Be careful._

_This is madness._

‘Yes it is,’ John agreed silently. Flip. 

John gasped. Though why he was surprised, he had not one clue: _I love you._

_Remember that summer by the pond?_

_Do remember to eat._

John’s glanced down at the next card, dated March 13. As he took in the message, his heart literally stopped beating: _I assure you,_ _he’s_ _fine._

Followed by: _Her name is Mary._

_She seems quite nice._

_I promise._

John felt sick, then touched, then sick again.

For less than a moment, he wondered just how in the hell this man even knew who _he_ was, let alone Mary, the lovely bank teller who worked up the road. They’d dated less than two weeks, though he still occasionally received a text from her, just checking in. She was nice. She was lovely, in fact. But in the end, his heart hadn’t been in it.  At the time, he’d thought he’d be able to put his mad life with Sherlock behind him and move beyond it, he’d been wrong. 

‘How had he known?’

Then he remembered Sherlock’s response when John has pressed him on the identity of his mysterious lover: ‘Well, if you must know, I met him through Mycroft.’

“Mycroft,” he muttered, kicking himself for his naivety.  ‘Of course - the man sees everything, knows everything, and has a habit the size of King’s Cross of sticking his nose in other people’s business.’

He vision gave way to the image of two toffee nosed wankers in waist coats, glued to the CCTV, drinking high end scotch and laughing. Of course they’d have been laughing - laughing at the poor devoted blogger, who couldn’t even get it up for the beautiful little blonde at Barclay’s.... 

He glared down at the cards in his hand before flipping through them in rapid succession:

_Take care of yourself._

_My heart._

_Would you please eat something?_

_Life is too short._

_Oh For God’s Sake!_

Reaching the last card - well, the second to last - he came to a stuttering halt. Even as his sight blurred, a green eyed python slithered around his chest and squeezed. Hard.

_I love you, too._

Unable to bear the pain, John stood quickly and exited the closet. Barely pausing, he tossed the cards and the ribbon on Sherlock’s bed. He really had no idea what Sherlock was going to say when he got home to find them scattered on his duvet like confetti; in fact, he didn’t really care. All he knew was that was taking his sweater back.

Just to make sure there wasn’t any miscommunication, he left Sherlock’s light on when he left. He also went and fished his phone out from where it had settled between the cushions and the arm of the chair.

‘I found my sweater,’ he typed furiously, his eyes stinging for no reason he was willing to name. ‘Enjoy your night.’

 

 

 

 

 

 ~*~

Morning came too early. John woke to alternating feelings of rage and embarrassment. He preferred the former to the latter.

As he got dressed, he decided to play it cool. If Sherlock was willing to overlook John’s idiocy the night before, John was willing to overlook Sherlock’s secrecy. And he did feel like an idiot. A big jealous, idiot who obviously wasn’t nearly as important as he thought he was.

Still feeling a touch defiant, he slipped on a new jumper - in fact, it was the one that he’s bought to replace the one he had supposedly lost, but now was back again. He snorted: ‘There seemed to be a lot of that going on around Baker Street.’

Squaring his shoulders, he headed downstairs, only to find Sherlock seated at the breakfast table.

There were two cups of tea on the table - one still steaming. 

Sherlock glanced up at his arrival, his hand resting on the pile of postcards, complete with the purple ribbon.

“Having a little sentiment with your tea, this morning?” John asked, before he could think better of it. ‘So much for not starting anything.’

“John,” Sherlock began.

“No.” John raised his hand, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“You’re upset.”

“Upset?” John exploded, all of his intentions going up in flames. “No, Sherlock, I’m not upset. I’m embarrassed and - if you must know - I’m feeling a little bit sorry for myself.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled. “Whatever for?”

John picked up the tea and took a drink; the scalding liquid burned a path down his throat, but it wasn’t enough to dissuade him. “I swore I wasn’t going to say anything, but I know that I’ve got to get it out, so I want you to listen to me, Sherlock. I want you to listen, without saying a word. Got it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“As ridiculous as it sounds...” John shook his head, unable to believe that he was actually going to say this. “...I honestly believed you when you said I was your one friend.”

“You are.”

“Ut....” John held his hand up. “Obviously that’s not true, but let me continue. And even though part of me was pained by the thought that you might actually only have one friend, there was obviously another part that liked the idea. And that part had made up this elaborate fantasy that maybe - just maybe - that _I_ was important to you. Maybe even the most important--”

“You are.”

John tilted his head warningly. “We both know that’s not true. Because if it were, then why would your _boyfriend_ \- and don’t you dare deny that that’s what he is - get to know that you were alive - to actually get to see you - when all I got was an empty flat and a granite headstone?”

“I did it for you,” Sherlock responded. “You know that.”

“But if it was so bloody dangerous, how come he got to know?” John asked, doing his best not to shout. “I understand that you had to tell Mycroft - he’s your brother and he’s got more power than God - but your boyfriend?”

Sherlock pushed himself up and started to come around the table, but then seemed to think better of it.

“He wasn’t at risk, John. You were.” Sherlock clenched his hands into fist, then opened them again, slowly. “Moriarty had guns trained on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.” He took one step closer. “Moriarty didn’t even know about him; that’s why he could know.”

John took a deep breath, trying to tell himself that he should be glad that Sherlock had had someone out there with him, worrying about him, thinking about him, encouraging him to come home. 

It didn’t work.

“You _are_ important to me, John,” Sherlock all but whispered. 

“But I’m not the most important,” John stated, knowing he sounded like a 12 year old girl. “I know it’s ridiculous, Sherlock. And I’m glad you weren’t alone out there. Really, I am. But I thought that maybe - just maybe....” He trailed off, unable to find the words.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was gentle, coaxing almost. “You are  the one person in my life who is here voluntarily. That, in and of itself, makes you most important. I couldn’t risk losing you. I still can’t.”

John grimaced. “How can you even say that?”

“It’s true!” Sherlock turned away, and then pivoted back again. “It’s true, John. You’re the only one.”

For the first time, John felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the unknown man whose heart Sherlock had stolen. “Relationships don’t work that way, Sherlock. I don’t care if he’s known you since you were in nappies, he has a choice.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “He really doesn’t.”

Not following, John sat the cup down with a clatter. “So are you saying that if I hadn’t been at risk, you would have told me?”

“God, yes!” Sherlock lurched forward. “You are the most important person in my life; you, John, are singularly unique. You are my best and only friend.” He reached out, but then pulled his hand back.

John almost believed him. God knows he wanted to.

“So you’re saying that if I hadn’t been in danger and you could have only told one person, you would have told me...” John licked his lips. “...and not him?”

“Yes.” Sherlock took another step forward, breaching John’s personal space bubble with practiced ease. “Yes, I would have.”

“Yeah, right.” John stepped back. “You’d pick your flatmate of two years over your lover of two decades?” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I know I’m being ridiculous, Sherlock. You don’t have to humor me.” 

“I’m not humoring you, John.” Sherlock moved to close the space between them. “Have you ever known me to spare anyone’s feelings? Even your own?”

John grimaced in spite himself. “No, actually, I haven’t. But why? Why would you have picked me if you could have? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Sherlock looked both sad and amused, in that way only he could. “Because he would have understood.”

Not exactly the response he was hoping for - not that he knew what response he was looking for - he merely shrugged. “Toast?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched and he retreated back into his own space. “Thank you, John,” he said; eyes shining. “Toast would be lovely.”

 

 

 

 

 

~*~

John took a sip of ale, and then sat his pint glass down with a thud. “Sherlock is seeing someone.”

Greg Lestrade choked on his drink, only to draw back and meet his eyes with intent. “You’re kidding.”

“No.” John sighed. “And it seems like it’s been going on for quite a while.”

“And you’re just finding this out now?” He sat his pint glass down carefully.

“Yes.” John shook his head, before dropping his chin to his chest. “I guess it’s pretty clear which one of us is the greatest consulting detective who ever lived, huh?

Greg nudged him gently. “How did you find out?”

“Honestly?” John questioned, still smarting over the last few weeks. “He was on his way out to lunch on a day that I came home early from work and I found some...” He hesitated, not wanting to give away too many of Sherlock’s secrets. “...Let’s just say that I found some _supplies_ in the bathroom that made it pretty clear what was on the menu.”

Greg’s eyes were wide, but he didn’t say a word.

“Then,” John continued, when it seemed like Greg was holding his tongue, “I got released early about a week or so later and they were there - at Baker Street.”

Greg took a quick sip of his porter. “Bloke?

John tilted his head and looked down the bridge of his nose. “Irene Adler aside, what do you think?”

“Bit of a dumb question, eh?” 

“A bit.” John returned, more out of habit than anything else. 

“Did you see him?” Greg asked, leaning forward ever so slightly.

“No, he was in Sherlock’s room.” John took another drink. “And can you believe that Sherlock - Sherlock bloody Holmes - asked me to go upstairs until after they’d gone?”

John had expected at least some level of commiseration. What he got was, “Really?”

“Really.” He snorted. “Apparently himself is ‘shy’,” he mocked, “and didn’t want to be seen. I just went upstairs and tried not to think about it.”

“Hmm,” Greg hummed, looking every inch his occupation.

“What?” John asked.

Greg shook his head. “Nothing, mate.” He glanced away. “But I do have to ask: what’s worse? That he is involved with some other bloke or that he didn’t bother to tell you?”

John felt his eyebrows draw together. “What’s the difference?”

“You know,” he prodded, shifting back ever so slightly.

“No,” John denied. “I really don’t.”

Sighing, Greg wrapped his hands around his pint glass and placed his elbows on the table. “Come on, John,” he admonished. “It’s pretty clear that you fancy him.”

John shook his head - two quick jerks. “That’s not entirely accurate, Greg....” Seeing the patented disbelief on Greg’s face, John took a figurative step back. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but you’re not entirely right.”

Greg quirked an eyebrow; it was an invitation to continue if John had ever seen one.

He laid his head in his hands, trying to figure out where to start. “D’ya know what it’s like when you had a crush on the prettiest girl at school and you knew that there was no way in hell anything was ever going to come of it?”

It was Greg’s turn to snort. “Who doesn’t?”

John nodded. “Well, that’s sort of how I felt - how I _feel_ about Sherlock. Totally gorgeous. Totally unattainable. Sort of like having a crush on a teacher, now that I think about it. It’s safe to sit around and spin your fantasies without any hope in hell that anything would ever come of it. Does that make sense?”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

John sighed, though even to his own ears it sounded like a gasp. “Well, when I thought Sherlock was asexual - or whatever it is you want to call it - it was safe to fancy myself a little bit in love, wasn’t it? Because. It. Was. Never. Going. To. Happen.”

“And,” Greg started slowly, “you wouldn’t want it to happen, why?”

“He’s my best friend for one!” John answered, taking another drink. “And I’m straight, for two.”

Greg laughed - and not just a snicker, a full out belly laugh.

“What?!”

“A truly straight man would have reordered that, John,” he pointed out. He wiped his eyes. “Just sayin’.”

“Sod off.”

“Sorry,” Greg apologized, though it was pretty clear that he was anything but. “So, is it serious? How long did you say that he’s been seeing this bloke?”

“To the degree that it’s serious? I have no idea. But when I - as his doctor - asked if he was being safe, he assured me that it was exclusive and I know for a fact that it’s been going on for a while now - quite a while.”

Greg nodded slowly. “I wonder if his brother knows.”

“Funny,” John remarked. “That’s the first thing I asked. He does. Apparently he has the Mycroft seal of approval. In fact, before Sherlock told me he met the guy when he was a teen, I actually thought it might have been you as you’re the only one I know of who’s known Sherlock longer than I have and who’s on Mycroft’s relatively good side.”

Greg spit out his drink. “I’m not sure that being a rather convenient means to an end warrants a seal of approval.” He then cocked his head to one side. “Hmph. I wonder....”

“What?”

Greg looked a little like a dog with a bone. “I just have to wonder who’d be crazy enough to put up with the bastard, long term, other than you or....”

“Or....?” John prodded, feeling certain that Greg knew something that he didn’t.

“Well, assuming that you hadn’t volunteered for the job....” Greg shrugged, giving John one of those ‘don’t shoot the messenger looks’ he often gave Sherlock. “I guess I always thought that he and Mycroft--”

John felt the floor drop out from beneath him. “For God’s sake, Greg!” He interrupted. “They’re brothers!”

Greg raised up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “True, but I’ve seen a lot worse over the years in my line of work. And the reasons why incest is looked down upon don’t really apply to them, you know?”

“Spare me the anthropology lecture, please.” John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. Though after a few seconds, that felt more like minutes, he had to ask, “Biology and sociology aside, _why_ would you even think such a thing? You know as well as I do that Sherlock can barely stand to be in the same room with him.”

Greg nodded. “Yet that doesn’t stop Mycroft from loving him--”

“In his own way,” John pointed out caustically.

“Mycroft loves him,” Greg continued, ignoring the interruption. “And given how Sherlock is about his so-called sociopathic tendencies, maybe that’s the way he returns it.” He shrugged, as easily if they were speculating on next season’s line up. “Or maybe they’re just being clever,” he suggested. “You know, keep everyone from seeing what’s right in front their faces. You have to admit, the air around them crackles.”

Not sure what to say, John took another drink. He tried to picture them, together, in any way that didn’t involve them glaring at one another across the oriental rug at Baker Street armed, respectively, with violin bows and umbrellas. He couldn’t do it.

“Besides,” Greg grinned. “In order to be with him long term you’d have to be both ridiculously smart and bat shit crazy.”

Despite the lump in his throat, John actually laughed. “Well, when you put it that way, I’m beginning to see your point.”

“And,” Greg continued. “For it to have gone on right beneath your nose all this time, they’d also have to be discreet as hell, or powerful enough to make the bodies disappear. Do you know anybody who fits _all_ of those criteria better than Mycroft Holmes?”

All of a sudden things didn’t seem that funny.

‘Sherlock and Mycroft? Really?’ 

He thought about the stack of postcards that he’d found in Sherlock’s closet - how the vast majority had hit their destination, despite being sent general delivery, what must have been - at least in some cases - days at advance.

As he was trying to come up with a suitable response, Greg slid off his stool and drained the remains of this pint. “So, do you want to put a pint on it?”

“That it’s Mycroft?” John asked, incredulous. 

He couldn’t help but think about the first time he’d met the man in a damp parking garage, so above the law, so above everything, reading John’s therapist’s notes as nonchalantly as if they were a novel he’d checked out at the public library.

“Eve - even if I did,” John stammered. “How are we going to find out?”

Without saying a word, Greg pulled out his phone. After fiddling with it for a few second, he flipped it around, flashing the screen at John.

John leaned forward, not quite believing what he was seeing. “Is that a tracking device?” he demanded. 

Greg nodded.

“You have a tracking device on Sherlock? Where the hell did you get that?!” 

The smug bastard actually laughed. “From Mr.-Wicked-Smart-Bat-Shit-Crazy-Discreet-as-Hell-and-I-Have-Ways-of-Making-You-Disappear, himself.” He bumped John with his shoulder. “Do you want to go see this bloke or not?”

‘ _My father never forgave Mycroft.’_

Thinking that the deceased Holmes may have had a point, John experienced a surge of anger.  “Not entirely sure,” he admitted, this mind supplying easily the memory of the discarded umbrella he’d seen sitting in the hallway.

“Now, you’re sure they’re together?” Greg asked, shrugging into his coat.

For a moment, John didn’t know what Greg was talking about and then he realized that he was asking about Sherlock and his bloke, not - well, not necessarily - Sherlock and his brother. He shuddered just thinking about it.

“That’s what he said,” John confirmed, finishing his drink and sliding to his feet. “And how can you be so calm about this, Greg? They’re _brothers_ for God’s sake!”

“I didn’t say I understood it,” Greg admitted. “But they’re not exactly normal, now, are they? And, as a friend, I guess I’d like to believe that maybe they have someone - even if it is each other - than believe that they’ve spent their whole lives alone. Wouldn’t you?” 

John shook his head. “It’s just so.....” He really couldn’t find the words. 

Greg leaned down to meet his eyes. “What’s the _real_ problem, John?”

“He was only sixteen!” John exploded. 

Greg whistled, backing away ever so slightly.

John realized he was shaking. “And then there’s the fact that he can barely function socially now; I can’t imagine that was much better then!”

“So you think Mycroft took advantage of him?” Greg asked, cutting right to the heart of the matter like the detective he was.

John felt sick. 

‘ _And has he made you happy?’_

_‘Not always. But he tries....’_

Holding back the nausea, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, only to have the elegant script that had been haunting his dreams scroll across the back of his eyelids.

‘ _I love you, too.’_

‘Too’ the card had said, written, obviously, in response to a letter from Sherlock. 

Did Sherlock love his brother? Really love him - as one would a lover, let alone as one would a brother? Personally, John couldn’t fathom it. But now that the thought had been planted, he wasn’t sure if he could let it go either. 

And what about Mycroft? Knowing how protective of Sherlock he was - the business with Moriarty aside - would Mycroft have really taken advantage of his brother like that? 

Would Sherlock, no matter what his age, really have allowed it to happen? Could he have stopped it? 

Then the flip side presented itself: Could he have _started_ it?

 _‘_ There were days that he was less comfortable with it than others....’ Sherlock had said when John had asked him if Mycroft had minded that his “friend” was getting a leg up over his brother. ‘But he eventually came around.’

Icy fingers danced down the length of John’s spine. 

Is it possible that it hadn’t been Mycroft? That it had been _Sherlock_?

“Well, think of it this way,” Greg offered, throwing his arm around John’s shoulders, either oblivious to John’s inner turmoil or simply trying to lighten the mood. “If it really is Mycroft you’ll be able to keep spinning your romantic fantasies with immunity without calling your heterosexuality in question, because there’s no way in hell you’re gonna be able to get up the middle of that! Or even if you did--”

John shrugged off his arm, not feeling at all reassured. “I know, I know, they’d never find the body.”

“Damn right.” Greg pushed him toward the door. “Come on John, if we’re going to do this thing, let’s do it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 ~*~

John remained silent while Greg flagged down a cab; not paying attention as the detective rattled off a posh sounding address near Knightsbridge.

As the black cab threaded its way through the crowded streets, hundreds of scenes flashed in front of his eyes: Mycroft, showing up unannounced at crime scenes. Mycroft, sitting in the living room of Baker Street. Mycroft, stepping on Sherlock’s sheet in the entry way of Buckingham Palace. Mycroft, telling John how he'd fucked up with Moriarty. Mycroft, his eyes sweeping up and down Sherlock’s lanky frame in what John had just assumed was disapproval. 

Him, catching Sherlock smiling softly at his brother, only for his expression to turn into a scowl when he caught John’s eye. Him, watching  - but not understanding - the defiant flash in Sherlock’s eyes as Mycroft had all but accused Sherlock of being a virgin.

Sherlock, teasing John about not eating lunch on his way out the door, dressed sharply in a charcoal suit that John had assumed, although maybe only subconsciously, had been bought with Mycroft’s money. Sherlock, asking John to go upstairs to protect the identity of his guest and then his hand on said guest’s back as they scurried across Baker Street. Sherlock, sitting alone in some shit hole, trying to track down Moriarty’s henchmen with nothing more for company than John’s old sweater and a growing stack of postcards.

“I’m not saying that it is him,” Greg began from his side of the cab, pulling John from his reverie.

“But you think it is.”

Greg shrugged. “I think it could be.”

“Why?” John turned to face him. “ _Why_ would you think that, really? First of all, it’s not normal - not that I’m saying that they are. But that still doesn’t explain _why_ that would be the first conclusion you’d come to.” He’d invaded Afghanistan for fuck’s sake, surely he was man enough to hear what in God’s name made Greg so sure, and so calm about the fact, that Sherlock might be shagging his brother. “So what is it that you’re not telling me?”

Greg glanced down at the GPS device in his hand before answering. “I saw them once.”

John must have looked shocked, because Greg reached out and laid a hand on John’s shoulder, giving him a brief squeeze.

“I hadn’t known Sherlock very long and I certainly didn’t have any idea who Mycroft was.” Greg took a deep breath. “We were investigating a triple murder and Sherlock was higher than a kite; spouting all kind of shit. I thought Anderson was going to clock him--”

“As if.” John snorted, trying to imagine Anderson even getting close enough to Sherlock to get in a shot, no matter what Sherlock’s state.

“He’d have deserved it,” Greg muttered. “Well, I was just about to cuff him and throw in the back of an unmarked car when a black sedan pulled up and out stepped some bloke in a coat that cost more than my entire wardrobe. He was about Sherlock’s height and nearly twice as wide - sort of jowly, though a lot of that was covered up with a beard. He certainly didn’t look happy to see me or Sherlock.” Greg shook his head, remembering. “He basically told me to go do my job and that he would handle Sherlock. He grabbed him by the arm and frog marched him to the car. I really can’t tell you which one of us was more outraged - me or Sherlock.”

“And you just let him take him?” John exclaimed. “He could have been anybody.”

“I may not have made DI, yet, but it was pretty clear he was some government spook. And I’m not above admitting that - _at the time_ \- I wasn’t about to throw my career away over someone like Sherlock.” He looked a little chagrined. 

“But I wasn’t a complete bastard,” he said, in his own defense. “When it became clear that Sherlock wasn’t going without a fight, I headed over there to see if I needed to do something. However, before I even got within shouting distance, Sherlock had the big man up against the car and even though it was dark, it was clear they weren’t fighting.” Greg took a deep breath. “Next thing I knew, the bloke had Sherlock by the forearms, pushing him away. I couldn’t quite make out what he said to him, but he proceeded to wrestle him into the car and that’s the last I saw of him.”

“What happened with Sherlock?” John asked, feeling much like he had the night in Sherlock’s room reading postcards that he never should have seen.

Greg shrugged. “Sherlock was back the next week; a little less out of it. But still spouting off and pointing fingers. I tried to ask him who the suit was but he acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

‘Sounds about right,’ John acknowledged silently. “And Mycroft?”

“I officially met Mycroft _Holmes_ three years later, in a hospital room, standing over his brother’s body, looking very much like a man whose world had just ended.”

John pulled back. “Did he recognize you?”

“Probably,” Greg admitted. “But I didn’t recognize him - not until later. And, as much as it would amuse Sherlock, I really didn’t put two and two together for about a year. And even then I couldn’t be totally sure.”

“So what was different?” John asked. 

“Oh, at least three stone, I’d say...” Greg leaned up and tapped the glass separating them from the cabbie. “You can let us out on the next block,” he instructed, before turning his attention back to John. “He’d also lost the beard. And seeing him standing there, I could see that he loved Sherlock.” Greg grinned a little self-consciously. “It wasn’t until he introduced himself that I realized he was his brother.”

Greg made a show of checking the GPS. “I’m embarrassed to say that it was the first time I’d even thought about the possibility that Sherlock had family - let alone someone who worried about him. Up until that moment, he’d only been some strung out junkie who was simultaneously improving my close rate and getting up my team’s nose.”

He reached into his pocket when the cab slowed to a halt. “Thank you, Sir,” he said as he slipped the money through the screen. He looked over at John. “We don’t have to do this; I’m happy to go to a pub or go home. But I also must admit, I’m curious as hell. But if this is going to bollocks up whatever it is that you’ve got going on with Sherlock, let’s not and say we did.”

“But why wouldn’t he have told me?” John asked as he opened the cab door and hauled himself to his feet on the wet asphalt. But as soon as the question was out of his mouth, it wasn’t Greg’s voice he heard, but Sherlock’s.

_‘You are  the one person in my life who is here voluntarily. That, in and of itself, makes you most important. I couldn’t risk losing you. I still can’t.’_

Turning to face his friend, John shoved his hands in his pocket. “You know what, Greg? Let’s just go home.”

Greg looked surprised. “Really?” His eyes darted up the road. “They’re right there.”

“I know.” John nodded, weighing his friendship with Sherlock against his adolescent fantasy and his societal outrage. “And it’s fine,” he said finally, thinking back to the first night he’d said those words - the night that Sherlock, single handedly given him his life back. “It’s fine,” he repeated, trying very hard to mean it. “It truly _is_ all fine.”

“Up to you mate,” Greg said companionably. With a brief glance over his shoulder, he lay his hand between John's shoulder blades, steering him towards the direction from which they’d just come. 

John recognized the weight of Greg’s hand. It was the same move that he himself used when walking families away from surgeries. The same move that he’d seen Greg use moving victims’ families away from crime scenes.

Sinking into the sensation, he wanted to tell Greg that he was fine as well. Instead, he took a deep breath, tasting the smells of the city. Letting it go - trying to let go of a lot of things - he glanced over and asked Greg if there had been any change on the case that he’d called Sherlock in on just the day before. Losing himself in the rough cadence of Greg’s story, he allowed his mind to drift - to the point that he lost track of his surroundings, completely unaware of the whirring of the CCTV cameras overhead as they walked by.

 

 

 

 

 

 ~*~

John awoke the moment he heard the door open downstairs.

He was still sitting in the wingback chair, having fallen asleep where he’d landed. He could hear, rather than see, Greg, who had obviously fallen asleep on the couch. Though there hadn’t been any need, he wasn’t entirely surprised that he had stayed.

He tried to slow his breathing as he heard the careful tread of footsteps on the stairs. Focused as he was on what the hell he was going to say to Sherlock, he almost missed the sound of the second pair of feet. _Almost_. 

‘Fuck.’

Deciding to stay put, he pulled himself up straight and waited.

From his vantage point in the shadows, he saw them walk in in perfect lockstep, Sherlock leading the way. Mycroft’s hand resting possessively on his hip. 

“Hello Sherlock,” John said softly. “Mycroft.”

Under any other circumstances, John would have laughed at the look on Sherlock’s face; he practically levitated in his haste to put some distance between himself and his brother.

“Good evening, John,” Mycroft returned pleasantly, as if Sherlock hadn’t just sprung away from him like he had the plague. “I trust you and Inspector Lestrade enjoyed your evening out?”

“It was fine,” he said, barely getting the words past his teeth. Unable to look at Mycroft any longer, he turned his attention to Sherlock, who, standing in their darkened living room, looked more like an errant child than a thirty seven year old man.

“And what about you, Sherlock?” He asked. “How was your _date_?”

Sherlock glanced quickly over to Mycroft, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, before turning back to John. “John, it’s not what you...” He looked back to his brother, who merely raised his eyebrow, as if daring Sherlock to continue. “I mean,” he started over, “whatever it is that you’re thinking....”

John watched the scene in front of him. Sherlock, doing his best to talk his way out of it. Mycroft, letting him do it. 

Sherlock looked down at his feet. And, much to John’s surprise, Mycroft took a step back. 

He couldn't believe it. ‘Mycroft Holmes was actually backing down.’

In the background, Greg coughed, before settling back down to an even deeper level of sleep.

“What was that?” John prompted, feeling cruel. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up, face stricken. He started to take one step forward, and then looked over at Mycroft. He stopped dead in his tracks. 

Mycroft, as cool as anything, said nothing.

John had to give it to him; he didn’t think he’d have that kind of calm in this situation.

“You were saying?” John prompted, yet again.

At that Mycroft cleared his throat. 

“It’s late, John,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. “Sherlock is obviously distraught. Perhaps the two of you should have this conversation in the morning?” 

Without batting an eyelid, Mycroft crossed the living room and touched Sherlock’s cheek, his finger tracing the delicate structure of the bones. 

From where John was sitting, it looked like a benediction - or a good bye.

“Good night, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured soothingly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. “I believe that John and I have some things to discuss. Isn't that right, John?"

John took a deep breath and held it for five seconds before exhaling slowly. Maybe it was a good thing Greg had stayed. “Sure,” he said, finally managing to stand. “Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at him for the first time. “Will you be here in the morning?” he asked.

“Are you asking _me_?” John countered, pretending not to hear what Sherlock was really asking. “I live here. Where else will I be?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes wary, before turning back to Mycroft. “Will I see you?”

Mycroft moved his hand so that his palm cupped Sherlock’s face. “Of that, dear brother, you may absolutely rest assured. Now go to bed.” He withdrew his hand slowly. “Please.”

John couldn’t help but stare at the way they were standing. How close they were. How at ease. How gently Mycroft had touched Sherlock’s face. How Sherlock had imperceptibly leaned into the gentle caress. 

It was like he was seeing them for the first time.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes?” John took a step forward. 

“Good night.”

John smiled despite himself. His eyes were stinging. “Good night.”

With one last look at them both, Sherlock finally turned to go. He shut the door quietly behind him.

Mycroft stayed where he was, his eyes on the path that Sherlock had taken to his room.

Instead of starting the conversation that he had no desire to have, John looked at Mycroft - really looked. Despite what Sherlock had always said about Mycroft being the most dangerous man that you’d ever meet, the one thing that John noticed was that Mycroft didn’t seem very dangerous. But then again, he never had. At least not to John.

But what he did seem was tired. And old.

The expensive suit hung on his frame where he hadn’t gained back the weight that he’d lost during Sherlock’s absence (which made more sense now, John supposed, than it had then given Mycroft’s own role in the debacle). His eyes seemed exhausted and his shoulders slumped.

“So what’s your plan, John?” Mycroft asked suddenly, turning to face him.

“Sorry?”

“Your plan?” Mycroft repeated. “Sherlock knows that you know and he’s very upset about that. He thinks you’re going to leave.”

“Why would I do that?” John asked.

“Why, indeed?” Mycroft took a step closer. “Outrage? Disgust?” Mycroft’s eyes roamed his features like lasers. “Jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous,” John denied.

“But you _are_ disgusted.” 

John moved to put some distance between them. “What I am is confused!”

“And what do you plan to do about it?” Mycroft asked as he took a step closer.

“What _can_ I do about it?”

Mycroft stopped in his tracks, and then tilted his head to one side. “You really have no idea, do you?”

“About what?”

“What is so disgusting  - or, rather, confusing - to you, John? That it happened or that it _is_ happening?”

“What difference does it make?” 

Mycroft’s smile didn’t meet his eyes. “It makes all of the difference in the world.”

John closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He heard Greg moving on the couch and wondered if he was still asleep.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mycroft,” he said finally. “What are you saying? It’s late. I’m tired. So, in English if you please.”

“What I am saying, John, is that all you have to do is say the word and this...” He waved his hand towards himself. “...would all go away. Is that what you are going to do?”

John’s head snapped up. “You’re saying that if I said so, you’d end it?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Mycroft’s voice was bitter. “I wouldn’t, but he would.”

“You’re joking.”

“No,” Mycroft assured, “I am not. Sherlock can’t lose you, John and he won’t lose me. There’s a difference that surely even you can see.”

John must be more tired than he though. “I’m sorry,” he said, thoroughly confused. “I really don’t.”

Mycroft sighed. “If you said the word, Sherlock would end this, because he needs you.”

“And he doesn’t need you?”

“I’m not going anywhere, John. Sherlock knows that. No matter what form our relationship takes, I will never abandon him. That’s something you and I need to be clear on.”

“So you’d give him up on my say so?” John repeated, suddenly angry. “Do you love him?”

Something in Mycroft’s face shifted; in a breath, all of his defenses fell away almost as if they’d never been there to begin with. 

And for just a moment, John saw it. 

In the lines of Mycroft’s face, he saw what it meant to have actually loved Sherlock Holmes - not for five years, but for over three decades. Not the man who was a self assured aristocrat who didn’t give a rat’s arse about what other people thought, but the antisocial little boy with no friends. Not the self-possessed consulting detective who solved cases that stumped the Yard’s finest as easily as if he were flossing his teeth, but the strung out junkie who had, on more than one occasion, been willing to throw his life away for the next big high. 

And in the shadows beneath his eyes, he saw the man who paid the bills without question, who withstood the public taunts, who bought the clothes, who paid off the police, who had paved his brother’s way into Scotland Yard, who had tried to buy John, who turned a blind eye to stolen security passes, and smoothed over international incidents. 

And, finally, in the slope of his shoulders, he saw the lover who had hid in plain sight for over two decades, who had born the scorn of parents and, now, flatmates alike, but who had still taken the time to handwrite postcards that he had no way of knowing would ever be received.

In that one unguarded moment, John saw it all. But, then, as soon as it was there, it was gone.

“I will never leave Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly, pulling himself up to his full height. “And, yet, I would never do anything to separate him from someone he loves. Can you honestly say the same?”

John flushed. “You’re implying that I can’t.”

“No,” Mycroft corrected. “I am implying that you might not. There is a difference.”

Just as John was about to open his mouth in denial, Greg sat up. 

“Oh wow,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft turned away, leaving John to gather his thoughts. 

‘It was up to him?’ John was incredulous. ‘Really? Mycroft Holmes was leaving it up to him, John Watson? Mycroft honestly thought if he gave the word, Sherlock would end their relationship?’

_‘I couldn’t risk losing you. I still can’t.’_

“Good evening, Inspector,” he heard Mycroft say, sounding once again like the politician he was and a little less like the distraught lover/brother.

John watched as Greg stood, extending his hand to Mycroft. “Uh,” Greg stammered, his eyes darting around the room. “Nice to see you again.”

Mycroft shook his hand briefly, before taking a step back. “I hope that John and I didn’t wake you.”

“John?” Greg looked over, obviously half asleep.

“Right here.”

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“Sherlock’s retired,” Mycroft answered smoothly, reclaiming Greg’s attention. “John and I were just having a little chat before bed.”

John took a deep breath, realizing that this was the moment. If he really loved his flatmate, even half as much as the man standing in front of him did, it was time to put his money where his mouth was. 

“Are you staying then?” he asked.

Mycroft turned, and then blinked. “Isn’t that up to you?” 

And in that moment, John heard Sherlock’s words as clear as a bell, _‘I suppose if I think of him at all, it’s as family.’_ And he knew it was over.

Knowing full well that he could never, as Greg had so prophetically said, get up between all of that, albeit not for the reasons that he’d been implying at the time, John looked at his watch. “I’m exhausted,” he said, not bothering to swallow a yawn.

Clearing his throat, John squared his shoulders. “I’m off, then. Greg, you’re welcome to the couch. Mycroft.....” He trailed off, not quite ready to put the invitation to words. “I’ll just see you in the morning.”

Mycroft tilted his head to one side and smiled, perhaps the only genuine one that John had ever seen. “Thank you, John,” he replied quietly. “Thank you very much.”

 

 

 

 

 

~*~

John woke to the sound of voices and it all came rushing back to him. 

Sherlock.

Mycroft.

Sherlock and Mycroft.

Sherlock and Mycroft, together.

And Greg had known.

Just as he was swinging his feet out to the floor, his phone buzzed, signaling an incoming text. Groaning, he reached over to grab his phone from the nightstand. 

‘Hello John. Fancy some lunch? Mary.’

He hesitated only a moment before replying: ‘That sounds lovely, Mary. Let me know when and where and I’ll be there. John.’

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from a Dave Matthews song I heard one day while listening to Paradise Radio of a similar title. As always, love and gratitude for my favorite beta, Jadis, who forced me to add not only texture, but also feelings. All remaining errors are mine. And, regrettably, I own nothing.


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